


Our Small Steps

by Whatwefightfor



Series: We Must Be Brave [13]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drabble Collection, F/M, Game: Destiny 2: Shadowkeep DLC, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, a lot of time passes, more complicated feelings that are almost exclusively subtext!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:08:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27485518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatwefightfor/pseuds/Whatwefightfor
Summary: Facing fear is the destiny of a Guardian. It’s been hers and it’s been his and it’s only going to get worse. The Darkness is growing. Luna is awake. That’s where he’s gone off to, most days. Aunor doesn’t follow. Usually.
Relationships: Guardian/Aunor Mahal
Series: We Must Be Brave [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1291235
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. Rumination

They’re not a fireteam. Not really. Aunor can only get out on her days off mostly, and he’s so often away on solo missions that their schedules rarely coincide. What their partnership amounts to is exchange of information, the occasional collaborative mission, a lot of him napping in her office and a lot of her coaxing him into coffee.

Like samurai circling each other.

And then some new mission comes down and he’s off-world for days, weeks. Never more than a month yet. He’s consistent, always has been, even before... _this_. Whatever what’s between them is.

Aunor thinks of it as such because sometimes he looks at her, the way he did that night on the service rail, and she feels like _she’s_ humanity’s savior, like _she’s_ the god-slaying hero who’s going to save _him._

It doesn’t bother her. Much. It’s only every now and then. What bothers her is she doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t speak his language; hers is the way of words, often harsh, leveraged with fact and certain prosecution. Hers is the language of her work. It rarely permits softness, at least these days. 

Facing fear is the destiny of a Guardian. It’s been hers and it’s been his and it’s only going to get worse. The Darkness is growing. Luna is awake. That’s where he’s gone off to, most days. Aunor doesn’t follow. Usually.

She goes once, to check up on Eris. Get a copy of the K1 files to compile for Ikora. What she reads is disturbing. What she sees even more so.

Aunor doesn’t question it. Eris will always be Eris, she tells herself. She’s weathered the Hive before. No matter what runes and fragments she plays with, Eris is reliable, and she’s doing this because it has to be done.

Aunor doesn’t question it. 

She wades through the phantoms, ignoring their echoed supplications. Thankfully, none of them are all that familiar to her. If they were, she’d probably look like Eris right now, hunched and plagued by the literal ghosts of her past.

She wonders if the Young Wolf has found Cayde-6 out there, wherever he is. Could he handle that?

Ikora doesn’t know what to do with the Pyramid, so she stands and stares at it. Aunor thinks if she’s trying to intimidate it, it might actually work, but only because it’s her. 

She doesn’t join Ikora. Bahaghari doesn’t like being near the Pyramid for too long. 

Aunor has things to do. She returns to the City. Prevent leaks, make sure Zavala’s getting updates.

Brew some instant coffee, just in case the Young Wolf stops in.

  
  
  
  
  



	2. Interrogation

“Is that a pre-Golden Age walkman? Where did you  _ get  _ that?”

“Found it.”

“How do you manage to kill a Devil Archon right after waking up, with next to no gear and a beat-up Khvostov?”

“I don’t really remember that fight very well.”

“You know that’s widely considered one of the worst-quality Golden Age firearms. I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen apart on you. Do you ever use it?”

“Not anymore.”

“...”

“...but it’s a good gun. Not like they say.”

“...You have weird taste.”

  
  


“I’ve never seen you use the Golden Gun.”

“...”

“...Is it because of Cayde?”

“...”

  
  


“Have you heard from Lady Efrideet lately?”

“Yeah.”

“Has she told you anything? About the settlement she started? Where it is; how they’re protecting themselves?”

“...can’t say.”

“You’re not planning to go, are you?”

“No.”

  
  


“What's your take on Osiris? Is he fit to be in charge of the Infinite Forest?”

“I think he’s the only one who can do the job.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“I know.”

  
  


“Has Drifter approached you about what he’s planning with this Gambit Prime business?”

“Not really.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he calls you ‘Snitch’ all the time?”   


“Not really.”

“I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Cassandra. Have you?”

“Not really.”

“Are you going to say anything other than ‘not really’?”

“...Maybe.”

  
  


“...” 

“I like that coat.”

“What?”

“Suits you.”

“...You’re really not like other Hunters.”

“I’m not volunteering for Vanguard.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

  
  


“Is that a Bad Juju? You know that’s contraband, right?”

“Eris needs it.”

“And you just... _ had _ it?”

“(Technically, we’ve made two-) Quiet, North.”

“I’m waiting.”

“...fell off a jumpship.”

“Uh-huh. What other Weapons of Sorrow have ‘fallen off a jumpship’?”

“...”

“You sure are sweating a lot.”

  
  


“Triumph Hall, huh? Subtle.”

“I didn’t name it.”

“I’ve always wondered why you humor him. Calus.”

“Keeps his attention on me.”

“...huh.”

  
  


“When do you want to meet up? I’m free.”

“On my way.”

“Oh. That was quick.”

“...was it?”

“...I don’t mind.”


	3. Relaxation

Aunor scowls. This catalogue is taking too long.

VERIFYING FILE INTEGRITY>WORKING

She leaves her tablet on the table top and shifts in her seat, leaning to stretch her lower back. Too much sitting. Even her rear is sore. There are some Guardian chiropractors in the City, but she never finds the time. 

The sizzling sound of meat and vegetables hisses and crackles from the other side of the room. The Young Wolf is tending to a large pan, with an apron over his armor. Neither of them are wearing civvies. In fact, they haven’t seen each other in civilian clothes yet.

Aunor wonders what he’d look like. Somehow she can’t imagine him in Eververse’s latest.

Beneath the noise of ingredients and cookware, rain beats against the window and exterior wall - good, water rain, not methane or acid or radiolaria or any of the exotic precipitation they’ve been out in for so long. It’s the taste of Earth, the smell of it, petrichor that Aunor can already feel in her nostrils, on her tongue. 

Late afternoon in the City, and it’s overcast. She’s watching the Young Wolf cook. 

It’s surreal.

“Where did you learn?” she’d asked.

“The chefs at Spicy Ramen,” he’d replied. “Eris. VanNet tutorials.”

Aunor was grateful for his offer. She doesn’t like to admit it, but takeout is probably two-thirds of her diet. The other third being coffee

She glances down at her tablet display.

VERiFYING>33% DONE

Her reflexive scoff of disgust reaches the Young Wolf’s ears.

“What is it?”

“Technology,” she says, rubbing her temples. “There’s just no reason for this to take this long.”

He glances at her. “If you want to help, that might make it go faster.”

What the hell. Aunor sighs, shedding her duster, doffing her gloves and rolling up her sleeves. In three steps she’s lurking behind him, bearing an uneasy eye on the stove that he’s handling with practiced, if slow, control.

It’s not that she never learned to cook. She’s had centuries to come around to it. It’s that she prefers to spend time on things that are certain to pay off, and her cooking is usually not.

“...I don’t have an apron,” she says.

The Young Wolf reaches around one of the cupboards and wordlessly hands her a bundle of cloth. It comes unfurled in Aunor’s hand and reveals itself to be a spare cloak.

He’s really, _really_ not like most Hunters.

She figures something out and fixes it to her front, holding out her arms awkwardly for the bowl the Young Wolf inevitably shoves in her direction.

“What should I do with this?” she asks.

“Whisk,” he says. “Don’t kill it. Just make it less like pulp and more like sauce.”

Her brow furrows. “How _much_ like sauce?”

The Young Wolf hands her a fork. “Not watery. But not molasses.”

The bowl smells good. Aunor whisks.

Ingredients migrate in and out of the pan. Noodles are strained from a boiling pot. Vegetables and meat are mixed in and glazed with Aunor’s passable sauce.

Dismissed as he makes the finishing touches, Aunor sets the cloak aside and returns to her seat. Her tablet’s display has not significantly changed.

VERIFYING>84% DONE

She sighs, rubbing her eyes with finger and thumb, and slides them down to pinch the bridge of her nose. It’s been a long week already. 

A hand touches her shoulder, gently, and she straightens as the Young Wolf reaches around her and sets a plate in front of her, nudging the tablet aside.

His hand is warm and her shoulder and neck feel solid underneath. Aunor stiffens on instinct.

“You okay?” he asks, withdrawing once he’s deposited her plate.

“Just tired,” she says. Hopefully he doesn’t take it as rejection. It’s rare for him to initiate physical contact.

Not that Aunor expects anything more than a normal amount of physical contact, which for her is not much. 

She brings her chopsticks to her lips and takes a bite. Her sauce is a little gingery, but it's not bad. Out of the corner of her eye, her tablet's progress bar remains on a slow grind.

"What's the assignment?" asks the Young Wolf.

She...can’t tell him that. Because it’s part of her report on _him._

Yeah, hanging out has been... _really nice,_ actually, but this has all had a purpose. That purpose being, she was voluntold by Ikora to keep an eye on him. Based on nothing more than her own concern, really. 

So she really only has to to this as long as she feels like there’s a risk he might be a threat to the City. Which, looking at him now, is laughable.

"I think one of the Tower cats just had a litter," says the Young Wolf. He picks up her silence awkwardly, seeming to accept that she didn’t answer his question.

That’s news to Aunor. She doesn’t go topside often. “No shit.”

“The orange tabby. Haven’t seen her around, but Hawthorne and I keep hearing noises on the terrace above the Bazaar.” He shifts in his chair. “I was going to check it out, maybe take them before Louis eats one of them. If there are any kittens, that is.”

“Now, wouldn’t that be a Dawning surprise,” Aunor says, sipping her drink. 

“It’s not Dawning till it snows,” says the Young Wolf. 

Outside, the temperature drops. The rain crystallizes.

It's the Dawning, after all.


	4. Realization

It’s after Hashladȗn when she finally snaps.

They’ve patrolled together before, and there was that business lifeguarding in the Crucible, but this is the first time he’s asked her to come with him on a Strike operation, and as much as she’s flattered, she’s confused.

Why her? And why _now?_

She doesn’t have the luxury of contemplation, because as soon as their boots hit moon-dust, the Hive are on them. The Crimson Keep is enormous, a remarkable feat of engineering. It must have started construction as soon as they left the Moon behind, after Oryx.

But it’s _Crota’s_ brood that built this place, and Aunor recalls that Crota was the Young Wolf’s first boogeyman. 

The Heart of the Black Garden notwithstanding, of course. But these days, no one really counts it.

The Crimson Hive are feral. Relentless. Their tactics are just different enough to unbalance her. But she isn’t a seasoned Warlock for nothing. It isn’t a problem.

Until it is. 

Until that goddamned elevator.

Hashladȗn _hates_ them. Specifically, she hates the Young Wolf, for killing her father. Unfortunately for her, the five others who participated in the Raid are not present. It’s just the Young Wolf and Aunor, and they didn’t bring a third.

Everything goes fine until the elevator up the central tower reaches the top.

Aunor’s kitted for long-range engagements, which has been working, because the Young Wolf has been doing what Hunters do - forging a path. She follows behind, mopping up and shooting over his shoulder. When he has to, he retreats to her rift. 

When they reach the top of the elevator, though, the architecture creeps up and hems them in real fast. And then Hashladȗn is right there, and a horde of Knights and Ogres come out of the woodwork from all sides.

So, maybe they should have brought a third.

The Young Wolf goes to work with a rocket launcher and his knives, but Hasladȗn’s bodyguards crowd him and he has to switch weapons to ward them off. Aunor can’t get to him, and she pops Hashladȗn a few times with her linear fusion rifle, but soon faces the same problem.

She backpedals, trying to Glide and gain some distance, but the air is full of Shredder and Boomer fire. She gets caught underneath the ribs, breaching her armor with a spray of vaporized blood. 

Her feet hit the ground unsteadily, and as she makes ready to cast another rift, she focuses on holding Bahaghari in, mindful of what happened to Cayde-6.

It’s that extra concern that distracts her just enough for a cleaver to bash her into the ground.

She goes down. Bahaghari materializes and dodges as best she can, crying out for the Young Wolf.

Aunor doesn’t see or hear any of what happens, because from somewhere beyond, what scraps of her consciousness that remain are building up her Light. She can sing to the Sun, as some Warlocks do, and she’ll be damned if she makes the Young Wolf come and rescue her - or puts her Ghost at risk any longer in this melee.

With a rush of Solar Light, she explodes back into her body, bolting upright billowing fiery wings. Bahaghari disappears back to safety just as a Thrall comes bearing down on her, looking to rend her shell with its glowing claws.

Aunor’s shotgun is in her hands, the weapon that comes most naturally to her. The range problem solved, she lets loose a volley of grenades, softening up the crowd so she can-

As loud as her Radiance is, something sharper and bassier cuts through the din and drowns her out. Tracer lines of fire slice through the mob of Hive, leaving pools of searing Light in their wake.

Between the two of them, the Hive shrivel and burn, until Hashladȗn hovers, wounded, above the ashes of her guards.

And facing directly down the flaming barrel of The Last Word.

Aunor’s Radiance, spent, diminishes until all that’s left of her wings are two gaslights floating at her back, dormant, waiting. She’s frozen by the sight in front of her.

The Young Wolf’s Golden Gun is so _pure._

It’s nothing like the one Malphur threatened her with at the Salt Mines, a Golden Gun that was vengeful, angry. Bitter. Almost cold.

The Young Wolf’s is _warm._ Warm like the Sun. And it waxes still, as if Aunor had sung to it instead.

He pulls the trigger without malice, without contempt or anything unrighteous. In fact, it seems like it almost hurts him to do it. 

Hashladȗn is incinerated, the glowing gunshot wound in her head spreading as if she’s so much crumpled paper. Her dying hiss silenced by the hiss of flames gulping oxygen, until there’s nothing left to burn.

Silence.

The Young Wolf is as still as a statue.

“You alright?” Aunor asks.

He turns. Twirls the Word and stows it, but the movement’s mechanical. Showing off is like sleepwalking for him. And it’s not real.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” he says. “Sorry.”

“I let us get separated,” Aunor says. “Besides, I’m a Sunsinger. I got back up.”

“I didn’t realize there were any Sunsingers left,” North says through the comms, awe in his voice.

“I was lucky,” Aunor says. It’s true that most Warlocks use their Solar Light to summon a Dawnblade now. She could do the same, but Radiance is still useful when the situation calls for it. And it pays respect to Eriana.

Not to mention all the Sunsingers who died in the Red War, fully expecting to get back up with their own Light.

Eris calls them back to the Sanctuary. Aunor half listens, watching the Young Wolf. Something...gnaws at her. An impulse.

A _childish_ impulse.

She forces it down and transmats.

Maybe some other time.


End file.
